I watched a striving author try to write
a novel once, a score of years ago,
except his search for perfect title quite
disabled him. His story wouldn’t grow
until he had initiated it
with words he mined, and screened, and analyzed.
Until he found the phrase appropriate,
my sorry friend was dumb and paralyzed.

I think it would have been a better plan
for him to write the novel to its end,
and let it speak to him as stories can
and feelings do, for if we can depend
on us for any wise self-knowing,
be confident we don’t know where we’re going.

(I know: the 13^th line is one beat short. So be it.)